


Cat's Cradle

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Soulmate Dynamics, Strings of Fate Zine, Worldbuilding, we love us a theme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: cat's cra·dle /ˈkats ˈˌkrādl/ noun: a game in which a loop of string is put around and between the fingers and complex patterns are formed.Also known as a "string game," as defined byWikipedia: "A string figure is a design formed by manipulating string on, around, and using one's fingers or sometimes between the fingers of multiple people. String figures may also involve the use of the mouth, wrist, and feet. They may consist of singular images or be created and altered as a game, known as a string game, or as part of a story involving various figures made in sequence (string story)."
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> This was my piece for the jeanmarco zine "Strings of Fate" with the theme of soulmates, but I focused on string (and the red string of fate concept, of course). Cat's cradle is a type of "string game" which Wikipedia describes as: _A string figure is a design formed by manipulating string on, around, and using one's fingers or sometimes between the fingers of multiple people. String figures may also involve the use of the mouth, wrist, and feet. They may consist of singular images or be created and altered as a game, known as a string game, or as part of a story involving various figures made in sequence (string story)._ I thought this was a pretty suitable concept for this fic--varying possibilities, but always intertwined in some way, no matter what happens. There is the starting "Figure 1" and so on, which you can read more about [here](http://www.stringfigures.info/cfj/real-cats-cradle.html) with some visuals.

**_Figure 1_ **

“You’re high-strung.” 

Jean looks up in surprise at the cadet sitting across the mess hall table and two chairs down.

Marco Bodt. Bit of a dullard, as far as Jean’s concerned.

“Huh?” he replies through a mouthful of soup, then scowls as the insult hits him.

Marco shrugs minutely and glances over to meet Jean’s eyes, but he looks inexplicably friendly. “If you’re stressed out before you use the gear, it doesn’t help. That’s why I breathe.”

“Oh,” Jean sneers, rolling his eyes, “so you’re not afraid of plummeting to your doom from those trees?”

There’s a meditative hum. “Sure I am. But you seem like you needed someone to tell you to relax.” Now he smiles—annoyingly and genuinely apologetic. “My sisters remind me when I seem too stressed out to calm down.”

“Are you saying I look like I’m caving to the pressure?” Jean sputters, frowning more deeply as he grabs his bowl to slide down and sit across from Marco, staring. “I’m not stressed out. Using the gear is like second nature to me!”

Marco looks thoughtful, the candlelight playing over his face in strange shadows. “You do seem to be good at it, but I’m just saying that you could be even better.”

Jean sighs and rolls his eyes. Normally, he’d get into a fight with someone questioning his abilities; but Marco has a personality that seems like he’s immune to petty insults or sharp retorts. He’s almost unsettlingly calm.

“How many sisters do you have?” Jean asks suspiciously. What a weirdo. Who talks about their sisters in training camp, anyway?

There’s a cheerful smile and swallow of water. “Seven.”

“Seven?!” Jean sputters. “I thought it was illegal to have that many kids!”

“Not in Jinae,” Marco replies. “It’s illegal when you get closer to the cities.” He shrugs. “Anyway, you’re good at the gear. You should try harder and be your best.”

They sit there in silence for a few moments, Jean’s spoon idly resting in the remainder of his dinner. Marco picks up his own bowl and finishes the dregs by drinking from it like a cup; it’s a definite country move. 

“You used the term ‘high strung,’” Jean repeats cautiously. “What did you mean?”

“Like you could snap.” Marco raises his eyebrows plaintively, looking serious. “I don’t mean psychologically, but panic.” He shrugs. “You seem like you’d be a good leader if you could keep your cool.”

Jean swallows his pride at the bizarre combination of compliments and critique, opting to just stare at Marco incredulously. “So, you think I’m crazy, but also a candidate for commander?” He bursts out laughing, throwing his hands up in exasperation at this delusional weirdo. “Thanks for the tip, Bodt.”

But Marco remains as placid as ever, unruffled, seemingly waiting for Jean to finish his rant, sipping his water.

“You’re welcome,” comes the very serious reply.

Jean snorts, but doesn’t comment further.

“Hey!” he exclaims suddenly, a smile brightening his face. He looks stupidly boyish, freckles smattered across his nose, dark eyes guileless. “I made a joke! High _strung_? Like the strings on the gear?” He nods his head, exceedingly pleased with himself.

Jean just stares at him, his mouth hanging open partially. 

“Are you going to finish that?” Marco asks without missing a beating, pointing at Jean’s bowl.

“Yeah, I’m gonna finish it,” Jean finally replies, finding words. “Um, when you say breathing, what do you mean?”

Jean never breathes quite the same way after that evening.

_**Figure 2** _

There isn’t much entertainment during training. Being a cadet is mostly about hoping the instructor doesn’t cut the lines during practice, that wilderness exercises won’t kill off anyone in a team, wondering what final placement will be obtained.

Jean not only wants to be in the top ten, but also number one. It’s never been about pride, but about his desire to live safely in the Interior. A cushier life beckons for him and his mother; all he has to do is survive.

They’re all told not to make friends, only comrades. Friends are a liability, especially knowing that any cadet in their graduating class could end up in the Survey Corps, whether they want to or not. Survey Corps members are either weak or stupidly brave; Jean is neither.

So it’s a strange night when someone gets ahold of an instrument and brings it into the barracks. It’s most likely contraband, since anything entertaining is usually considered contraband by Shadis; but to most of them, it’s unclassifiable and unrecognizable.

“It looks like the instrument the beggars in the square used to play,” Jean declares expertly as he stares at the instrument. It’s a similar shape to the fiddle that he’d heard growing up, its songs becoming increasingly dissonant over the years as the player grew old and sickly.

“It’s a guitar.” Marco’s voice is calm and authoritative, the way he sounds when he knows what he’s talking about. “I know how to play a little. A family friend in my hometown taught me, but it’s nothing special.” He smiles awkwardly as everyone’s eyes shine with interest in the boys’ bunkhouse.

“I’ve heard of a violin and fiddle,” Armin remarks thoughtfully from the top bunk. “Any stringed instrument is unusual, though.”

The guitar is offered to Marco eagerly and he accepts hesitantly, not looking at anyone. 

Unlike Jean, he hates being the center of attention; Jean thinks this is a silly insecurity, particularly since Marco seems able to stay calm in any situation.

“Uh,” he says, strumming the strings and reaching up to turn a few of the silver pegs, “I only know a few songs.”

“What are you doing?” Eren asks from where he’s sitting next to Armin, too distracted by this alien presence to focus on anything else. “Why are you turning those things?”

“I’m tuning it,” Marco replies as he gives the guitar another strum, frowning minutely as he brings his head down to listen more closely. “The strings have to be tight enough to sound good, but it’s hard to really tell since I’m rusty.”

Everyone just waits in a sort of silent reverence, including Jean, eager to witness this fascinating new skill. 

Finally, after a few melodic passes of Marco’s fingers over the strings—Jean will admit, it’s hypnotizing—he crosses his arms and shifts where he’s sitting on the edge of Connie’s bunk.

“C’mon, Marco. We’re all waiting,” he presses with a grin. “Don’t be shy.” 

Despite all warnings, Jean has definitely made a friend in training; confirmed by the way Marco looks up and smiles a little, rolling his eyes.

He has a warm expression; Jean feels his own face heat and he looks away, hoping there’s no color in his cheeks. It’s pretty embarrassing to blush over your best friend.

And then finally, a wonderful sound arrests the room. Even Jean’s attention is riveted toward Marco as he strikes a few notes.

“Oh,” he says bashfully, bending over the guitar to study the motions of his own fingers as he plays a melody, “I forgot some of the chords. I guess you’ll just have to settle for whatever I remember.”

He plays a song and even sings, albeit looking embarrassed the whole time. Somehow, despite the delighted reactions from all onlookers, Jean thinks it sounds strangely sad. He doesn’t comment, though, choosing to just enjoy the rare moment of quietude.

After the instrument has been spirited back to the supply wagon where it’d been found—its purpose and presence unknown—everyone goes to bed. The lights are turned out and the barracks are woefully quiet again, as if music made the silence even louder.

They share a bunk, and Jean whispers in the dark, “Why did it sound sad?”

“It’s a lullaby,” Marco replies, equally quiet. “I don’t know anything exciting.”

There’s a creak as the person above them shifts, and Jean turns onto his back, not wanting to meet Marco’s eyes, even in the dark.

“I liked it a lot,” he says simply. “I bet there are lots of instruments in the Interior you could play, if we join the Military Police together.”

He can feel Marco shrug a little as the blankets shift. “Maybe.”

There’s no maybe for Jean. He promises as he closes his eyes that he’ll hear the song again, only next time, without an audience.

Music has to wait, though. First, they need to get there.

_**Figure 3** _

“It’s called shot string,” Marco says as he aims the shotgun he’s holding at the distant metal target. “You think about the ammunition as a swarm, not just a single projectile.”

The area where cadets shoot is an open field to prevent accidents from overzealous trigger fingers, wintery yellow grass tamped down by leather boots. 

Marco is a natural it seems, and he’s been firing rounds off into the foggy morning for a half-hour. Shadis doesn’t stop him, even though normally their rifle training is limited to a minimum.

Jean has decided to join him out of curiosity, blinking sleepily and cringing as another deafening shot fires, pinging the metal of the target. “But it’s a clean shot. It doesn’t look like it went anywhere except where you aimed.”

Marco lowers the shotgun and neatly disassembles it with a flick of his wrist, stowing the barrel over his shoulder with the stock resting against his chest. It’s so neat and tidy, he could have been writing a letter and simply put down the pen.

“Sometimes, tips like that aren’t obvious,” Marco shrugs. “I didn’t understand until one of the commanders explained it to me.”

“Why do you want to shoot, anyway?” Jean asks, clearing his throat and straightening his shirt, embarrassed at the childish question. He’s genuinely curious, though. “Aren’t guns mostly for killing people.”

“They make us learn to shoot,” Marco replies brightly. “It all must be for something, right?”

And the only answer is: Yes, this all must be for something. This all means _something._

_**Figure 4** _

The cadets are taught from day one: Don’t go back for the dead. The fact that the corpses of friends should be left behind makes sense in an abstract way during training; but it’s much more difficult to digest once the corpses are manifested in the streets of Trost.

Winning against the Titans in any way, shape, or form is impossible. The cadets and elite forces assigned to protect Eren in his Titan form may as well be the walking dead, even if everyone is hoping for survival.

Therefore, when his gear fails, Jean assumes no one is coming for him.

It’s mayhem. The streets are littered with the smell of blood, dust, Titan puke. It’s a wasteland of carnage, the stuff made of nightmares.

Jean ignores it, sprinting toward the first structure he sees with an open door and up two flights of stairs. Thankfully, most of the buildings in this district have been left unlocked and untouched as everyone fled.

The crash of a Titan’s footsteps in the street slowly recedes, at least for the moment, and he exhales, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor and gather his wits.

The glass of the windows shivers as the footsteps of more giants pass. Jean knows very well that there’s probably too many of them for any of the squads to survive, but he’s never been a quitter.

For the moment of reprieve he has, he notices the dishes left on a table across the room. There’s even still soup in the bowls, and the surface of the slowly congealing liquid shivers as well as footsteps continue—little threads of tension that ebb outward.

The entire scene is a picture of what happened when Trost was first attacked and Titans crashed into the town—dinner abandoned mid-way, a mug knocked to the floor, several chairs upended. A family had lived here once.

Jean takes a deep breath and glances out the window again, peering down onto the street, before his eyes fall eagerly on the body of one his comrades. The soldier’s head has been crushed, and in some way, Jean is grateful for the fact he can’t see the dead eyes.

And there it is: ODM gear, just lying there. Badly damaged, but probably still functional.

He’s never been good at taking leaps of faith, but now he doesn’t have a choice, and so he rushes into the street, leaving the tableau of ruin behind him to fight.

The gear doesn’t come off easy, and he’s stuck shaking a badly mangled corpse to try and retrieve equipment. So much adrenaline is pumping through his veins, he doesn’t have time to question the moment or ponder what he’s doing.

The dead are to be left behind.

And Jean thinks, as he wrestles with the equipment lodged between the body of a fellow cadet, a stone, and a voracious Titan, how absurd their helplessness is without strings and fuel. That in order to survive, piercing stone to _anchor and move, anchor and move_ is destitute when the strings break or the fuel fails.

Jean used to think the gear was eerily similar to a puppet, a controlled clown put on display as temporary amusement for the masses—the Survey Corps, army of walking corpses. The reason the other military divisions left them behind in mockery is because they’re as good as dead, temporary, Titan chow as a distraction.

But as Marco and Connie descend from the sky unexpectedly, Jean thinks that maybe those strings aren’t puppetry. That maybe strings are the only thing standing between Titans and the demise of humanity, soldiers that are stupidly brave, wooden heads with beating hearts. 

Thanks to Marco Bodt, one moment, Jean is helpless on a ruined street in his hometown; then he’s flying the next. 

He lets the wires carry him and follows.

_**New Game** _

The more distant the past seems, the more Jean stops pondering timelines. The world doesn’t make sense; this is a fact he must accept as the years pass.

But he thinks, despite the betrayals and deaths and current irrelevance of ODM wires, that time is curvilinear. Time doesn’t travel a single path, but branches off into many, making a web that curves back in on itself multiple times.

And much like a guitar or a shotgun, there is nothing logical about how any string bends, the impact they have on people. It even seems like fate at times.

Marco has been dead for seven years, but Jean visits him in his dreams. He wakes up sometimes with a kiss like smoke hovering above him, and he isn’t sure if the smoke or the kiss—or both—are a memory or a dream.

He does remember it, though, when he’s washing his face in the morning with cold water before he shaves, watching the ripples in the tense surface of water. Memory of that abandoned house in Trost, in Paradis, a place that only recently had an actual name besides the bastion of humanity; before they knew more.

Nonetheless, Marco lives in the ripples of water, in the motion of wind through trees, in the movement of clouds. The sky looks the same no matter where he is in the world or when—one great, vast collection of colors and textures, ever-moving yet always familiar.

_“You can tell a storm is coming,” Marco says, pointing at the sky as he pulls up his hood and grips his ODM gear tighter. “See how fast the clouds are moving? It’s going to rain hard.”_

_Jean grins, cocky. “I can handle myself in the rain. I know how to use this gear.”_

_Marco smiles back. “Well,” he replies, “don’t forget, I’ll always be behind you.”_

Jean doesn’t believe that death is the end. Instead, he believes that when he falls off this mortal coil, his gear will work in the end. The wires will snap back and he will be delivered to where his timeline ends: Marco, anchored into his bones with unbreakable wires.

**Author's Note:**

> It was really fun being a part of this project and I hope you like my piece! <3 You can check out the zine's official twitter [@JM_Zine](https://twitter.com/JM_Zine) for updates about other contributors' posts and info.
> 
> This is the first thing I've posted in nearly a year, so thank you for reading! Comments always treasured!


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